Losers & Liars
Mass Exodus to Cheltenham for Race Meeting
You’d think we had annexed Cheltenham and colonised it as an Irish territorial possession in Britain. You’d think we owned the place instead of simply losing our shirts there year in and year out. You’d think they welcome us with open arms because the craic is mighty when the Irish are about.
We are welcome in Cheltenham all right, the bookies are besotted with all 10,000 to 15,000 of us who make the annual pilgrimage, while the bars and hotels are nearly as infatuated. Why wouldn’t they roll out the red carpet when we pump ourselves into a mass spending frenzy as if we had the resources of JP McManus or Dermot Desmond?
You’d swear everyone was given a copy of The Complete Prophecies of Nostradamus at the turnstiles, bookmarked at a page predicting the end of the world this weekend, and people have decided they may as well empty their pockets before then. What use will money be afterwards? Punters of modest means behave like high rollers during the festival – although many crash and burn long before the four-day event is over. Between the drinking and the all-night poker schools, never mind the racecourse bookies, a Cheltenham visitor and his money are soon parted. Hearts are broken there, and at all the race meetings where gambler meets bookie and meltdown ensues – although rarely, if ever, for the bookie.
Our relationship with Cheltenham seems a particularly tenacious one, however, and regulars – no matter how pounded by Lady Luck – make next year’s reservations as they check out of hotels with beds unslept in. “Brilliant time,” they say, “any chance of the price of a coffee?” Oh yes, we love Cheltenham. And, why deny it, a key ingredient in our enjoyment is beating the British on home turf as Irish horses ridden by Irish jockeys pass the finishing post first. We never tire of scoring points against our nearest neighbour, no matter how affluent or successful we become, while Britain looks on with amused indulgence.
We may have nothing left to prove as a nation but try telling that to our collective psyche. For 90 plus per cent of punters Cheltenham is pure entertainment, a chance to kick up our heels after the winter. But for some there’s another side to the races: one in which proclivity encounters opportunity and – between excitement, stupidity and a liberal measure of drink – tragedy can happen.
Have you ever watched a gambling addict in action? I have. It’s an unnerving sight. There’s no joy in it, no sense of achievement, no target figure to win or lose, no plan to spend winnings on anything apart from another bet. The mechanical grind of compulsion is all that’s discernible.
There are infinitely more losers than winners at race meetings and in some cases punters who squander every cent, borrow recklessly and lose that too. Breaking not only their own hearts but those of their families who end up short-changed for the rest of the year. Bookmakers aren’t in the philanthropic business, they’re in the money-making business. Cast an eye over that carpet of discarded betting slips any time you’re doubtful about who wins when bookie and punter keep company.
A Cheltenham gambler last year told me he lost his €3,000 pot in a poker school inside half an hour on the first night. He never did reach the races. It’s not an unusual scenario – Cheltenham has a particular capacity to kindle the gambling instinct. We tell ourselves it’s in our blood as Irish people, somehow confusing the national horse worship with an urge to funnel our bank balances into the nearest bookie’s till.
Last year Irish-trained horses won nine of the 24 races while this year we’re on track to break that record, taking three of the six races on the first day and a further X on the second. We quote these statistics with pride, seeing them as an endorsement of our horsey reputation. The wives left at home, as they invariably are, and trying to manage on a budget might have a different perspective.
A friend’s husband attends Gamblers Anonymous, after leading his family a merry dance during his betting years when he took a punt on every sporting fixture under the sun. There was something about horseracing, however, which particularly ignited his lust for a wager. Initially, having a flutter was a Saturday afternoon treat but his dependence accelerated. It reached the stage where he couldn’t take his children to the seaside without sloping into the bookie’s for a quick fix. Then another. Until the day was wasted and no sandcastles were built.
He couldn’t walk down the street to choose a birthday present for his wife without detouring to stake the cash on a tip or a hunch. His logic was contorted – when the horse won at 2 to 1 he’d buy her twice as fancy a present. There were many years when she had nothing at all. He started getting an advance on his wages and they’d be lost too before the money was earned. Finally he stole from the supermarket he managed, although he insisted it wasn’t theft – he was only ‘borrowing’ and would pay everything back with his winnings. The borrowing gathered pace to chase his losses, and by the time €30,000 had gone astray, handed over to bookies who knew he couldn’t afford to gamble at this level but never once turned him away, his employer sacked him.
His wife learned the hard way there are only two kinds of gamblers. Losers and liars. Yet it’s never been easier to stake a bet, between Sunday betting, telephone and internet betting.
We feel affectionate towards Cheltenham as the pinnacle of a more egalitarian form of horseracing, National Hunt, where small-timers stand as much chance of victory as multi-millionaires. There was proof of that on the first day when Irish horse Brave Inca, bought for a few thousand euro each by a syndicate, won a £350,000 championship. There’s a sense in which we all celebrate the little man’s win. But Cheltenham is also about being known as a big punter, a concept imbued with machismo, bravado – and a self-destruct element. The trouble is we’ve confused our passion for horses with a taste for gambling. No harm in enjoying yourself, of course, but of all the addictions this one dissolves money at jig-speed.
If we loved horses so dearly couldn’t we simply cheer them on instead of staking a year’s savings on them? It’s never a great day for the Irish, as I heard repeatedly from Cheltenham this week. It’s a great day for the bookies.
